Fearless
by EclipsedImpala
Summary: Full summary in fic. Basically gratuitous Dean whump. Dean is captured and tortured. And Cas is ready to smite, smite, smite! There are EXTREMELY GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF TORTURE. Massive trigger warning. I was told this was too much whump. Is there really such a thing though? Especially when the comfort to follow will be flufftastic. 18 chaps so far.
1. Let's Play The Feud

Dean is captured, after an epically bad fight with Sam, and tortured horrifically, cruelly, his body and soul broken and laid bare. Bobby is alive and worried to death... And Cas?

Well, someone has HIS Dean.

HIS.

DEAN.

Heaven and Hell hath no fury like a pissed off Castiel.

Whump. Gratuitous Dean whump. Some Cas whump too, I guess? Mainly emotional whump because he worries about Dean.

This is Dean's journey. From rock bottom, on death's door to happy and healthy and loved.

It's just gonna take awhile.

THIS IS NOT A SHORT STORY. THIS IS A LONG TALE THAT TAKES TIME TO WEAVE. IT IS A STORY ABOUT HORRIFIC TORTURE, A TORTURED PAST THAT HAUNTS DEAN, STRENGTH IN THE FACE OF CRUELTY, SURVIVAL, RECOVERY, HIS JOURNEY TO REALIZE THAT HE IS WORTHY OF LOVE AND GOOD THINGS AND HOW IT;S OKAY TO ALLOW HIMSELF TO HEAL AND TO BE LOVED. THE FIRST 18 CHAPTERS TAKE PLACE OVER THE SPAN OF SEVERAL DAYS WHERE DEAN IS BEING TORTURED, AND YES, HE SHOULD BE DEAD BY ALL RIGHTS, BUT HE IS BEING HELD ON THE CUSP OF LIFE AND DEATH BY AN ANGEL. I AM EXTREMELY TIRED OF ALL THE HATE I AM GETTING FOR "TAKING TOO LONG TO RESCUE DEAN" AND "TOO MUCH WHUMP". TO THAT I SAY: HEED THE TAGS . READ ALL THE NOTES AND BE PATIENT. PLEASE DON'T BE RUDE TO ME. THIS IS MY STORY

This entire fic is, and will be, extremely GRAPHIC. Extreme, in-depth descriptions, imagery, and depictions of gratuitous, heinous, brutal torture and violence, rape, sexual assault, sexual abuse and torture. Etc. I cannot begin to express how very, very seriously you MUST adhere to the warnings and tags.

****** THIS NOTE IS A MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING FOR EVERY CHAPTER******

Chapter Manag Chapter Tex CHAPTER 1: "Let's Play The Feud!"

Drip

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

DRIP.

DRIP.

DRIP.

DRIP.  
DRIP.  
DRIP.

__Dripping__.

__Fucking annoying.__

__Why is it always hearing that returns first, and why is it always soooo loud!?__

DRIP.

DRIP.

__The fuck is that?! Water?!__

__Smells... Wet... Smells like... Wet...wet...concrete.__

__Okay.__

__Okay, Dean, that's two outta five senses...take it easy...Take it slow... Nice and slow.__

__I regain more consciousness, more senses will return and then I can figure out just what the fuck happened. Right?__

__And just why the fuck I'm really starting to HURT. Can't be good that I just noticed it! And just figure out just how in the FUCK I can get outta here.__

__I hope.__

__I feel warm. Really warm. Why do I feel WARM?. ..and...and sticky... Don't feel good... Everything HURTS.__

__Oh not good.__

__So not good.__

Dean focuses on that warmth, discovering that this particular warmth, is moving downward, steadily. From his forehead to his toes.

_And everywhere in between._

__Wonderful.__

__Thanks for joining the party, Sense Number3! TOUCH. YAY! The ability to feel! Just what I wanted! To feel how fucking bad I fucking hurt!__

__Joy of joys. And I'm totally friggin' confused.__.

Dean runs his tongue against the inside of his cheeks, and then his teeth; Pissed off because TASTE. Good ol'Sense Number four! And THAT taste never, EVER means anything even remotely good. His thoughts are so jumbled... Nothing is making sense and he really doesn't feel good.

__What is red and tastes like iron__?

__Survey says!__

__Blood__.

__Ding ding ding!__

__Why am I surprised? I shouldn't be surprised.__

__Prize?__

__Tell'm what he's won, Chuck!__

__I shouldn't be joking either! Ha! Chuck! Ha ha ha! I'm s'funny.__

__C'mon, Chucky! Chuckles! Chuck! Wha'd'I'win? Don't keep me in suspense! Am I loopy? I should be crying. I'm loopy!__

__I'm loopy.__

__Loooooopy...__

__Rhymes with...__

__Poopy!__

__Ha!__

__Wait__

__Wait... Shuuuuush...quiet! Hee hee... Wait... I was doing something... Numbers.__

__Inward giggle.__

__What was I doing? Counting. Why was I counting? I was counting...__

_It was important_

__Should pro'ly open m'eyes.__

__Tired, Sammy. Wanna go home.__

__Want my Baby.__

__Focus, Daniel-San!__

****Focus!****

Dean hears himself giggle. At least, he thinks, it's a giggle. It's really more of a high-pitched, wheezing wet sputter, that launches him into coughing, which leads to projectile blood spray and then the slow drip drip drip of even more of his blood, this time out of his mouth, over his lips and down his chin.

And it hurt! Oh AWESOME did it hurt! Intimately. Terrifyingly. Dean hasn't felt anything, pull everything, everywhere, at once... quite like that, upon any kind of vocalization, since...

__So fucked. Soooo... soooo...__

__Freaking fucked man.__

Dean hasn't felt anything like that since hell. And it has him terrified to find out what **_**awesome**_**Sense Number Five has in store for him.

__So no prize then. Okay.__


	2. Stickshifts and Safetybelts

__No prize, guy, now open eyes!"__

__So now my ____inner-monologue____ sounds like Wheelie from "Transformers: The Movie."?__

__The good one though, the 1986 one... not that shitty excuse for one.__

__But Wheelie? Really? That dude was annoying as fuck. Such a little Bitch. Heh. No wonder Sammy liked him. Ha!__

__Ow. I hurt. Why do I hurt? Did I pass out? Again? For the first time? Second time? I really liked my Transformers... Cars that transform into giant alien robots! What's not to love?__

__Could really use one, or twelve, now...__

__Huh? Hm? Wha happ'n?__

Christ-on-a-biycycle, Dean's thoughts are so muddled and scattered.

__Focus...__

Dean slowly, and not without struggle, manages to open his right eye, just not quite fully. More like a cautious three-quarters. And a half. His left eye is badly swollen shut. Of that he's certain, being that he's able to catch the swelling with the peripheral of his right eye a good indicator.

"F'k..." Dean hisses in pain. "...am I?"

__Fuck nuggets. Hurts to talk. Damn throat hurts! Thank you Captain Obvious.__

__Focus__

__Where was I? Counting...__

__Senses...__

__Fanfuckingtastic! Sense number 5! C'us'y'know, what I see is so awesome.__

Dean, now with his right eye open, is finally aware of several things. None of which give him any hope. Or comfort. Nope. None at all.

__But thanks for playing!__

__The shit show that is Dean Winchester proudly announces: "Several Things That Lessen Dean's Chances For Survival!"__

Let's begin...

1\. His head is hanging between his shoulders.

2\. His shoulders and arms are above him.

3\. He's staring at a crimson pool three feet(?) beneath him.

4\. He's suspended in the air, three feet(again,?) off the fucking ground.

5\. It's his blood that's fucking annoying him as it drips  
from his toes into the crimson puddle.

6\. The crimson puddle is from his blood.

7\. A lot of his blood.

8\. A whole lot of his blood.

9\. That's probably why he's loopy.

10\. He's naked. And not for the fun and kinky.

__Oh God. What if it's a bad... A very bad kinky? I can't... No... I won't... Not... No... Not. Going. There. Not again. God, please... Not again.__

11\. There is a giant meat hook impaled in his right flank, the barbed, curled end sticking out his front and facing to the right.

12\. He likes making numbered lists.

13\. He finds number twelve hilarious.

14\. HE'S HANGING UP THREE GODDAMN FEET IN THE AIR __(Let's face it, I made up the whole 3 feet thing. It could be more! Maybe less! Who knows? Not me? Allow me a cruel chuckle)__ WITH A FUCKING MEAT HOOK INSIDE HIM.

Just. Like. Hell.

__And that's just swellllll...__

__Why am I rhyming? I'm way more outta it...than I thought...__

__Focus, damn it!__

Dean attempts to draw in a long breath for much needed oxygen, but only manages a short, sharp intake of air that has him trying, and failing, to curl in on himself with the marrow deep, molten white hot agony of it.

He finds himself lost in time, writhing in the air, pain so intense, so all consuming, that it has become a living entity alongside him, demanding and unforgiving, taking taking taking... Taking so much more than Dean has to give.

The meat hook twists inside Dean as he twists in the air; The hook tugging and tearing at him, with every strangled gasp, shortened breath, violent cough, every terror filled scream and sob, wrought from his abused body, heart and soul.

Dean comes back to consciousness with a gasp, right eye snapping open.

This time Dean is staring up; his neck thrown back, chin tilted upward, his good eye blinking back haze as he focuses on the strange sight before him.

__Huh. Well that explains why it feels like there's freaking barbed wire scratching my bones... BECAUSE THERE FUCKING IS BARBED FREAKING WIRE SCRATCHING MY BONES!__

__I really don't feel well.__

__I really, really don't feel well.__

Dean's eye closes again, too heavy to keep open.

Sometime later he snaps wide awake, unsure what woke him this time. He idly wonders how much time has passed.

Dean slowly tips his head down before rolling it to rest on his right bicep. The image of blood and too white bone, steel tendrils threading through his torn flesh, grating against his bone...is just...too much.

__Can't look a'tha'shit no more... Feel sick.__

Despite sincere protest, Dean's curiosity and eye betray him, and he finds himself glancing quickly from up at his hands, to the rest of his...incarceration.

__Well fuck me sideways...__

__Mmm...Sideways...That's always fun. New angle...Thigh grips...Oh yeah...Thigh. Grips...Calgon, take me away!__

Dean inwardly snickers.

Then he starts to fade again, blood loss and pain, taking a heavy toll.

__..."Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd, smiling,"...__

__Man, I lovffs that song..."And as I rise above the fear line in his..."__

__Rise above...'bove...__

Dean opens his eye again unaware of it closing.

__Fuck. G'ss'm'stil'ere...__

__Slurrin' wor's in m'head canna be gu'd__

__FOCUS!__

__Hands...Blood...Hook...Barbed freaking wire, man. Barbed wire. And not the shitty movie. Well, "Barbed Wire" did have its...perks. Ha! Damn I'm good.__

__No...Nope...I'm really not...__

The barbed wire was wrapped around both of Dean's forearms, from an inch or two below both his elbows, down to his wrists, then hands, all joined together as one. The barbed wire was then placed over a meat hook in much the same manner a worm is placed on a fishing hook. His weight is resting on the space of wire joining his hands. __Awesomeness. I'm bait. How apropos. That's right, Professor Bitch, I ain't as stupid as you and dad, and everyone else, think I am.__ The hook was purposely welded to a steel bar...

That runs...

__C'mon you sonovabitch...Where ya runnin' ta...__

Dean struggles to take in everything he can before the pain drags him back under, the strain bringing a trickle of blood and sweat mix that runs into his eye. He rapidly blinks away the droplets and the black dot fireworks that threaten his vision.

__No no no...Stay awake...Stay...wake...__

__So tired. So tired.__

__Focus. Wake up...I'm wake...__

Dean follows the steel bar, wait... Not a bar...

__Well I'll be damned...__

It's not just a bar like he'd thought. It's the main support beam of the structure he's in. Which, is no where near as large as Dean originally thought.

The whole structure is about 30 feet by 30 feet. One story. Concrete floor. Wet concrete. Flat roof. Metal. Concrete walls prob...

Once Dean's inspection shifts to the wall in front of him, it stalls out as quick as Bobby's old Chevelle did when Dean taught Sammy how to drive stick in it.

Sammy never did get the hang of it...


	3. Man In The Mirror

Inventory and Realization

Dean's stomach plummets to his knees simultaneously as bile surges up in his throat.

He clenches his jaw, completely unprepared when he sees himself glaring back.

And completely unprepared for the condition he finds himself.

The walls, all of them, are covered in floor to ceiling mirrors.

Fucking mirrors.

MIRRORS.

Some dickhead has a fucking warped-ass sense of humor.

Dean's Adam's apple bobs furiously as he takes himself in; tears and sweat and blood annoyingly trickle down from his forehead, stinging his good eye.

Holy shit.

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

The hunter inhales deeply, well, he TRIES to inhale deeply, but his lungs can't fill fully.

His ribcage won't expand... It can't expand.

Of fucking course.

_How could I forget that feeling._

Snarky and sarcastic even in your own head, huh, Dean?

He tries for another deep breath, because, hey, he's a glutton for punishment.

Asshole.

He hears and feels his ribs grinding against each other as he again tries to take in enough air. Dean gasps sharply as fire engulfs his chest from the effort.

Not good.

So.

Not.

Good.

Dean pleads with himself to get a handle on the pain.

_I feel sick._

_How in the fuck did I let this happen?!_

_Why can't I remember?!_

Dean should be in a whole world of freaking hurt. He's so confused.

Wait. Wasn't he just trying to get a hold of the pain? Did he?

So confused.

_...Not that I'm complaining...that I'm not feeling pain at the moment…_

_...and I'm not..._

_I mean, I just was hurting... Wasn't I?_

_It hurts..._

_Freakin' hell, man! It hurts._

_But...something..._

_Somethings wrong._

_Really wrong._

_Fuck, man. I'm so confused!_

Dean tries, and fails, miserably, to hold in a sob of anguish and pain.

For the first time in a very long time, he feels like a scared little boy.

And he hates it.

Man oh man does he hate it.

He hates how vulnerable he is.

How weak.

How helpless.

How scared.

And one thing Dean Winchester is NOT, is vulnerable, weak, or scared.

Or helpless.

But he is.

His father always knew.

Don't cry...

Don't cry, goddamnit!

"... Stuh... Stop...cr-cry...crying..." Dean rasps to himself, tears flowing freely, damming in his long eyelashes before breaking lose to stream down his beat up face as he loses himself to memories of his father's drunken rage-filled tirades of emotional and physical abuse.

**_'Stop crying, Dean! You're pathetic, Dean!'_**

**_'Only babies cry, Dean! Only weak men cry, Dean!'_**

**_'Only GIRLS cry, Dean. Are you a girl?'_**

**_'Only fags cry, Dean. Are you a fag, Dean?'_**

**_'One job, Dean! One fucking job and you fuck it up!'_**

**_'Sammy is THE ONLY one that matters, Dean! Not you! Especially when you can't even take a beating like a man! How many fucking times do I have  
to tell you?!'_**

**_| "B-but, but, d-d-daddy… I'm only 7!_**

**_| I-I'm n-not a man ye-"_**

**_| SMACK_**

**_| "You're goddamn right you're not! A_**

**_| man could fucking take care of his_**

**_| little brother and take a beating!_**

**_| You're a fucking failure, Dean. You_**

**_| are so fucking worthless. Such a_**

**_| disappointment."_**

**_'What's next, huh, ya dumb fuck? Ya gonna piss yourself too?'_**

**_'Pathetic! Cowboy the fuck up, Dean!'_**

**_'This, this right here- your weak, pathetic behavior-this is why I wish Mary and I only had Sammy. You're worthless, Dean. You exist only to watch out for Sammy-to keep him safe. No matter the cost. He's the smart one. He's the one that needs to be protected. Even your mother loved him more. Why do you think she went to him and not you?'_**

The flashbacks stop as abruptly as they started leaving Dean in even worse shape than before.

"... S-suh...suh-suh...sorry, duh-dad... Suh...Suh...ammy..."

"So suh-sorry…."

Dean shudders violently against a sudden, agonizing onslaught of fire and ice shredding through his tortured body and soul, and this time he can't hold back the heartbreaking howl of his pain, both physical and emotional, or the voice-cracking whimpering prayer for the one person who truly knows his worthless soul and still gives a damn:

Cas...

Fight, Dean.

Fight.

Dean imagines it's Cas' raspy growl in his head with a steady litany of 'Fight, Dean, Fight! Stay awake!'

Dean fights against the darkness hovering at the edges of what little remains of his red-tinted vision.

He's determined to remain conscious long enough to catalog his wounds.

He's naked, save for the meat hook in his right flank and the blood; some of which has dried, some drying, most is freshly bleeding. Damn near his entire body is covered in blood.

_I look like freaking Carrie!_

He half sobs, half laughs in utter misery; his own attempt to cover his pain with humor, falling flat.

Dean shuts his eye hoping when he opens it again this'll be nothing but a nightmare. If that don't work, he hopes Cas will be standing in front of him telling him it's time to go home.

The Righteous Man opens his eye...

_I never was that lucky..._

Once again Dean takes stock of his appearance; freckles, blood and bruising stand out sharply against his pallor.

He swallows a few times trying to wet his dry throat.

He can't stop shivering now.

He can't stop his teeth from chattering.

Christ almighty I'm fucking...

...fucked up!

Dean's pelvis doesn't look quite right. His left side is drooping awkwardly and the turn of his hip is all wrong. His left leg is fucking longer than his goddamn right.

He's awfully swollen down...down...there too.

Dean forces himself to look closer at his dick and balls.

Jesus. His balls are swollen like he hasn't cum in months.

Scratch that.

Years.

Well shit. It probably has been years. Dean hasn't been with anyone since Lisa.

Another failure of his.

"Juh… just me an'my… muh-my… hand."

So fucking pathetic.

_Can't even get laid and now…_

Fuck it hurts just looking at'm. Dean bites his bottom lip and shifts his gaze up a bit to look at Little Dean. Yikes! A bit red. Swollen too. And… and… blood?!

Dean whimpers. A real, actual whimper.

And now he's getting angry.

Really.

Fucking.

Angry.

_Whoever did this is going to die. Slowly. And very, very, VERY painfully._

_Cas… I need ya. I really, really need ya… I really hope ya got your ears on, buddy. Please, Cas. I… I don't …. I dunno know how long I can h-hold on…_

Not.

Not good.

The more he catalogs his injuries, the more he realizes just how dire his situation.

Dean's right knee is clearly dislocated. His left ankle is twisted disgustingly, so, yeah, obviously, broken.

And it only gets worse the further up his body he looks.

There's a deep gash extending from his sternum, to his upper left flank, and...

And...

Aw fuck...

...five of his lower ribs on his left are completely exposed, and from the lovely view he's presented with, broken. The muscle that normally covers his forever-getting-  
broken ribs, is now torn and hanging gruesomely along with shredded flaps of his skin.

Hospital. Yep.

Hospital stay is a definite.

_If I live that long._

Dean desperately fights off wave after wave of nausea the more he stares at the reflection of his broken body.

_Cas…_

Dark blood sluggishly seeps from where the meat hook has entered him; A pregnant sanguine river meandering across the plain of his abdomen, over hard ridges of muscles, around his distended pelvis to the curve of his hip and down his thigh, down the inside of his knee, along his well defined calf muscle, across the top of his foot to drip off his toes into the flourishing pool beneath him. He can feel blood running down his back, over his ass and down his right leg.

The blood...

So much blood...

His blood...

And it's nauseating.

_Cas._

Vivid black and deep violet bruising have quickly announced themselves in a ring around the meat hook, all up along his right and left sides, across his pectoral muscles, rib cage, pelvis, ankle, knee, and along the hard line of collarbone, save for a slice of white providing a sickening contrast.

Dean focuses on that slice of white along his collarbone. He stares until it forms a coherent image in his mind.

Fuck.

It's his collarbone, well, part of it anyway, jutting out of his skin.

With strange detachment he continues his perusal.

His face…

... is a bloody mess.

_Cas… Cas please. Fucking goddamn Profound Bond bullshit!_

The entire left side of Dean's face , from temple to neck, is swollen grotesquely, the skin pulled taught, and shiny. He can't even see where an eye would be. It's red and black and angry. There's a six inch? Ten inch? long gash running at an angle from the left side of his head, across what would be his eyebrow, if it wasn't so swollen, across his nose, which may or may not be broken, down his right cheek just under his eye, to his jaw under his ear. Dean can't tell how wide or deep it is, he assumes pretty fucking though, due to the amount of blood half congealed, half trickling from it.

_I'm freaking exhausted from looking in a mirror._

Dean refuses to look back at his arms. He just can't. It's too much. It's all too fucking much. He settles for the comfort of a blood soaked bicep instead, (said bicep belonging to the shoulder with the handprint of a certain angel-his angel- on it, well, Dean will reflect, pun most definitely intended on whatever that means later), his eyelid fluttering until it stills, for once the black dots exploding like fireworks in his vision are welcome, and Dean finally-finally- gives in, his last thoughts of Cas.

****Meanwhile in the bunker*******

Castiel is fuming; Angelic wrath throbbing icy hot through his Grace as he paces in the bunkers kitchen.

Dean. His charge. His...his whole universe. His...No. Castiel cannot go down that path. He know his feelings are unrequited. It is far too painful to reflect upon, and yet, he cannot deny that he needs Dean. It is a simple truth. A truth Castiel has been avoiding for quite sometime. A truth Castiel can no longer deny.

He loves his Dean.

And his Dean has been missing for two days.

Castiel can't find Dean.

_Anywhere._

He can only sense the slightest trace of Dean through their Profound Bond.

And that slight trace is enough to absolutely terrify Castiel, because that slight trace is nothing but excruciating pain and torment.

Which is why the glare that Castiel fixes Sam Winchester with is of celestial proportions.

"What do you mean you do not know where your brother is!" Castiel's tone is menacing. Downright terrifying. If there was ever any doubt that Castiel is an Angel, a warrior, none remains now.

Sam and Bobby both retreat a step, ducking the light bulb shards from the exploding kitchen light, courtesy of the angel's wrath.

Castiel continues to glare, debating whether or not to stretch his wings for good measure.

He's not angry with Bobby Singer, though.

His wrath is for Sam.

And Sam alone.

Sam let his brother go after a heated exchange (Castiel was not present at the time) and Sam had made no attempt to search for Dean when Dean had not returned home. Dean was aware Bobby was en route to the Bunker, and Castiel knew that his—emphasis on his—Dean would not miss the older hunter and surrogate fathers return.

Castiel narrows his eyes at the youngest Winchester, satisfied with Sam's flinch despite the self-righteous upturn of Sam's lips.

Sam smirks at Castiel, his reply heavily laced with spite. "How should I know? I don't keep tabs on him. That's Dean's MO. Not mine," Sam picks an apple up from a bowl on the kitchen table, buffing it on his shirt, allowing his words to sink in; the pause having his desired effect if Bobby's sharp inhale and the puffing out of Castiel's chest are any indication.

Sam takes a bite of the apple and continues, "It's pathetic, really. He's Pathetic. It's creepy too, how he '... has to watch out for Sammy'. Well he fucked that up too, didn't he?"

Sam laughs and shakes his head. "Turns out Dad was right about Dean after all."

"Boy...I outta slap you back ta next Tuesdee... After all that brother a yours has done for yer sorry, ungrateful ass," Bobby adjust his worn out baseball cap and steps in Sam's space. "...and that's how ya talk about him?"

Castiel watches the exchange with interest, ready to step in should it be required of him. He likes Bobby. Respects him. Most of all Castiel likes how Bobby treats  
Dean. Sam's words against his brother were both heartbreaking and cruel.

And WRONG.

John Winchester… _Oh Dean. Of course Sam had to bring that beast into it. Just one more way to hurt Dean._

Castiel suppresses the incessant urge to tear Sam apart if only for Dean.

Sam and Bobby stare at each other, the tension between the two hunters pulling so taught it threatens to snap.

Bobby shakes his head, shoulders slumping in resignation, sadness evident when he finally speaks. "Ya just don't get it, do'ya, Sam? You really haven'a foggiest what that boy has done fer ya all yer life,"

Sam straightens to his full height and looks down at Bobby, dismissive. "Seriously, Bobby? What Dean has done for me? He's treated me like an ignorant child all of my life! He could never accept that I wanted a life—MY life—away from him and dad! He tried to control me! Hell, Bobby, he still does! Dean is a needy little bitch with major abandonment issues. He can't survive alone. How in the hell can you not see that? Oh, that's right, how stupid of me to forget: Dean's your favorite. Oh! And let's not forget how much of a hypocrite Dean is! It's okay for him to eye-fuck a certain angel, and oh how Dad would looove that, but yeah, Cas, that's right, my brother is in full gay denial love with you—a fucking ANGEL—but I was the monster for fucking a demon? C'mon! And let's not forget the endless lies! When does it stop with him? Never. It will never stop with him. Brother or not... I am done dealing with his shit."

Sam looks over Bobby to Cas, who looks completely shell-shocked, heh, s_orry Cas, dear old Dean will never admit it to himself, let alone you_, and spits venom, "Do I know where he is, Cas? No. Do I give a rats ass? No. Fuck. Him. I called him out on his bullshit, he got all weepy eyed and pathetic, stormed out that door..., " Sam stabs the air with his finger in the direction of the bunker door, "...and that was that."

Sam steps around Bobby and tosses his apple at Castiel, slightly disappointed when Cas snatches it out of the air with ease. "We're done here." Sam turns and stalks out of the kitchen.

"The hell, kid?" Bobby mutters to Sam's retreating form.

"SAM!" Castiel yells to Sam, getting a middle finger in response.

Bobby turns and faces Castiel, "Well ain't he a picture."

"He is lucky Dean loves him," Castiel's eyes remain focused down the hall where Sam retreated.

Shooting Cas a sideways glance with a furrowed brow, Bobby questions, "An'why is that?"

Castiel slowly turns his head to face Bobby, "He would no longer draw breath."

Bobby raises an eyebrow, snorting, before he sighs, worry heavy in his voice, "So whada we do now, Cas?"

"I do not know, Bobby."

"I do not know."

Rachel has been torturing Dean Winchester for a total of 48 hours, 37 minutes and 42 seconds.

And she's just getting started.


	4. Evil, Ornery, Scandalous And Evil

Bobby sighs, taking one last look down the hallway and shakes his head at the other Winchester he considers a son as well.

The hell's gotten into Sam? He sure as shit ain't acting like himself.

_I'mana hafta set his ass straight. Sam, Sam, Sam…Boy… if ya only knew what Dean sacrificed for you. What he did FOR you._

__

_Aw, Dean. Damn it. I love that boy sumthin fierce. Shoulda been me raisin' him not that bastard John._

__

_And boy did John Winchester fuck Dean up bad._

__

_I should really tell Dean how much I love'm. Much as he says he hates 'chick flick moments', he loves 'em. Jus' won't admit it a'course. He needs ta know though._

__

_What a stupid old man ya are, Bobby. Yellin' at the kid about expressin' his feelings when all we've ever dun is try'n'get his damn high walls down enough to tell us how he feels. Damn it all, but I'm the biggest idjit of 'em all!_

__

_Shoulda taken those two from John the minute I saw the pained, soulful green eyes of a four-year-old with the world on his too tiny shoulders, holding his baby brother._

Bobby washes his face with his hands, the tips of his fingers tipping his cap up slightly. He can't walk down the path of 'what if'. He's done it before and all the good it did was illuminate his failures through the looking glass of a tipped up bottle.

Bobby readjusts his ball cap and thoughts to the here and now.

And there ain't nuthin good about now either.

"Balls."

_Damn it, son, what ina hell has got ya now._

As if his heart couldn't break any more for Dean. The damn finest man Bobby has ever known. Better'n him. Better than John. Better'n Sam. Dean doesn't even know his worth. And that boy in no way deserves any of the agony life has heaped his way.

And then there's Cas…

Castiel Angel of The Lord. Bobby rolls eyes as far back as he can. Be damned if Cas didn't worm his way into Bobby's heart as well. Friggin' angel… Angel who just happens to need Dean as much as Dean needs him.

Cas.

Cas and Dean.

"Double balls!"

Those two idjits are head over

heels, halo over wings for each other—hell they've been for a long damn time—and how the shit neither of'em figured it out, Bobby will never know.

Well, more like one knuckleheaded hunter who won't ADMIT—hells bells, ALLOW— himself to admit how he feels about Cas.

Bobby is fairly certain, actually 100% positive, Cas knows how Cas feels about Dean.

It's just Dean then. Stubborn, stubborn, pig-headed, selfless, self-loathing…

Oh.

Ooooh.

It hits Bobby like a ton a bricks: Dean doesn't think he's worthy of being loved; therefore the very idea that someone could, in fact, love him, is beyond comprehension. It doesn't even settle in as a possibility.

_Fucking God damn you, John!_

Only Dean. Dean who has so much love to give, thinks he is undeserving of the very love he so generously gives away.

Only Dean could make an 'Angel of the Lord' fall(more ways 'en'one) in love with him.

And only Dean could be completely oblivious about it while at the same time return the feeling wholeheartedly, but not understand it, then berate himself for it, deny it, and end up even more clueless.

And then suffer needlessly for it.

How'n'a'hell does the kid not know?!

Hell, everyone else knows! Heaven and Hell alike!

Shit. Hell. Does that mean JOHN KNOWS?!

An'if he does…Dean is gunna be ina world a…

No way. Even IF John knows, ain't shit he can do.

Right?

But how'n'a'hell are Cas and Dean the only two who DON'T know.

"IDJITS."

The whole damn lot of 'em.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Bobby looks as Cas.

Bobby rolls his eyes again.

Fucking Cas.

Feathered idjit.

And be damned if that Halo ain't look'n'like a lost puppy. An'll bet the house he's reflectin'ona certain comment about a certain hunners feel'ns 'bout ' im

Bobby appraises Cas and snorts, amused at the befuddled expression the Angel probably has no idea he's making.

Damn feathered fool should jus tell Dean. Lord knows the poor damn kid needs someone to take care of 'im. That boy needs someone who can demolish his damn high walls and love him unconditionally in the way he needs it. And that is definitely Cas. Damn it all! Dean ain't even aware of how damned obvious he is when it comes ta how badly he needs Cas.

Bobby huffs as he walks over to the mini bar.

Castiel only 'hears' Bobby's thought of 'Cas' befuddled expression and how very amusing Bobby finds it', because Bobby is projecting very, very loudly. Stress, Castiel observes, before he finally severs his glare from the hallway, to fix it upon the elder hunter. Castiel, unable to reign in his wrath, bites out an icy, "You find this amusing?", with an upward inflection of disbelief, instead of the emotionless acknowledgement he had so hoped to portray. Embarrassing. Capillaries engorge and color his cheeks 'Annoying Red', (Dean's voice. ), against his will, so Castiel flips the script (Dean's voice again. ), narrowing stormy blues at Bobby's back, closing the gap between them before Bobby can finish his blink, Castiel imagines, and oh how that thought "amuses" Castiel to no end, as he now stands directly behind Bobby.

To his credit Bobby doesn't even flinch; he's far more concerned with seeking out that certain…

…perfect…

… bottle…

… or is decanter of old ass bourbon?

Whatever and who the hell cares what the damned thing is called!

Ha!

There you are!

Bobby's fingers deftly dance over crystal until they flush out their query.

Castiel pouts at the distinct LACK of flinch, Castiel had hoped to achieve from Bobby.

Bobby, knowing Cas as well as he does, is absolutely positive he disappointed the angel when he didn't flinch. Bet that ruffled yer feathers! And so Bobby does what Bobby does best: ( 'Cept for drink and scold his boys a'course), roll his eyes. Got dang angels! 'Course Cas just hasta pop up on his ass. Cue eye roll.

Bobby rolls his eyes.

Not one to be deterred when it comes to flushing out his liquid prey, Bobby picks up that elusive bourbon, and removes its top. Holding the amber nectar in his right hand, heavy crystal top in his left, pissy angel on his six, Bobby gazes longingly at the decanters mate: a forlorn tumbler looking for all the world that its waiting  
patiently for Bobby To Pour! Or not to pour!

_You and me both._

Bobby pauses to mouth: Almost there, hunny at the now impatient tumbler before addressing said pissy angel on his six without turning around.

Bobby turns his head ever so slightly toward his right shoulder and bites out, "Hysterical, princess."

Castiel sighs heavily sensing the sarcasm. He turns his gaze upward, chin sticking out in a pout. "My apologies, Bobby. I… I'm just… beside myself…."

Bobby lays the crystal top down and snorts again.

_Me too, Cas_. But instead of saying that, Bobby donates the unchick-flick-y version of his thoughts, "No fucking shit." Bobby then pours himself a generous four fingers of…

Bobby closes his eyes, bringing the tumbler right under his nose. He inhales deeply, nose following the edge of the glass.

Oh yeah…

Bobby may drink cheap as shit hooch, but that don't mean he ain't a connoisseur of fine bourbon. No it does not.

_My favorite… Maker's Mark. Oldest damn bourbon made still kicking._

The "Connoisseur" gives a silent 'thank you' to the Samuels Family on his exhale.

Comforted now by imbibe, Bobby softens and offers, "I know, Cas." Bobby opens his eyes and gently places the decanter back from whence it came, following it up with an appreciative taste of his ambrosia. Bobby tips the glass toward his mouth in preparation for yet another taste when he abruptly ceases the motion, suddenly—urgently—feeling the need to tell Cas that yes, Dean does requite Cas' feelings, "It's true, ya know."

A beat.

Bobby pokes further. "How Dean feels abo—"

Castiel abruptly cuts Bobby off, because Castiel just. Can't. Won't. Can't. Sparring thoughts torture him. _I can't go there now. I cannot. Too much at stake. Dean's life. Dean's LIFE is at stake and I need to focus. I need to... I need to not even consider the possibility that Dean could...that Dean...that Dean might very well requite my love._

Castiel cannot, and will not, be distracted by futile hope. Matter settled. He begins to address Bobby once again, "I… I am… I will be going to Dean's room now. I need…"

_I need... I need Dean. I need to lay on his bed… I… Father help me… I need my human. I need him so badly… How is this even possible? How have I fallen for him? Well I don't give a flying fucking rats ass how; I just am, damn it! _Castiel smiles inwardly, amused his inner monologue, along with some conscious thought, continues sounding like Dean. Castiel musings are interrupted by a throat clearing, and he scrambles for purchase on a ledge he had no knowledge of stepping onto, and so he responds stupidly, "…for… for…"

"Guidance?" Bobby supplies, his eyebrows going up in that—smirk-sarcastic-gee-ya-think?—kinda way.

"Something like that, yes." Castiel leaves Bobby with a sad smile in farewell.

Bobby rolls his eyes again when he hears Cas' wings flap. Will he ever stop rolling them?

Not likely with these idjits.

"Okay… Let's have us a chat with Sam then…"Heaving a great sigh Bobby finishes the bourbon in a shot and decides to go in search of the youngest Winchester.

Bobby barely turns to head off when he pauses. He looks back at the bourbon remembering he never replaced the top.

_Guess my mind is telling me something_.

"Better listen then." He replaces the top, grabs two tumblers, and the bourbon, then heads off to find Sam.

* * *

"Hello and good morning, Dean! I trust you have slept well?" Rachel struts over to her…

Plaything?

Perhaps not.

Pet?

Yes.

Pet.

Yes that will do nicely.

This worthless, pathetic…. filth… abomination—human—stole Castiel from her and ruined her life.

And the lives of her brothers and sisters.

So now it is Rachel's turn.

It's her turn to hurt—to destroy—Castiel for all the insurmountable pain he inflicted on their kind. On her.

And there is only one way, one delightful way, to hurt Castiel.

It has been said that a true warrior attacks not the body, but the heart.

Rachel is a true warrior.

Rachel is going to lay waste with angelic wrath the likes of which have never been seen. She is, after all, a woman scorned.

She will lay waste to Castiel by attacking his heart. His soul.

And she will accomplish this by annihilating, in the most profoundly agonizing way possible, The Righteous Man (ha!) Castiel raised from perdition.

Dean.

Winchester.

Her Pet.

She slowly circles Dean, sizing up her prey; lips that elegantly coordinate with her Pet's blood snake up her face into an icy smirk.

"Oh don't tell me that the great Dean Winchester passed out from pain!" Rachel's tone turns mocking and she throws in a pout just for the hell of it. "Awww…. Poor, poor baby. Poor wittle Deanie Weenie. Did a wittle itsy bitsy girl like me hurt the big ol'mean Deanie Weenie wiff a wittle baby peepee? Huh, baby boy?"

Waiting for a reaction without receiving one sets her Grace boiling and she snaps, snarling out, "Well that really won't do at all!"

Furious, Rachel balls her fists at her sides. She roars savagely and stomps her navy colored, Steve Madden pump clad foot on the concrete floor, snapping the heel clean off. What are you? A petulant child? No! No I'm not! I'm not! Well now she really seems like one with all that inner whining. Whatever. Rachel flips her hair back and bends at the knees with a snarl as she snatches her broken heel—broken four inch stiletto heel—up from the concrete. She glares menacingly at the offending heel in her palm until an idea snaps her attention to the real object of her enmity.

A switch flips as she glowers at Dean, and just like that, Rachel regains her composure. She plucks a wayward strand of ash blonde hair from the lapel of her now  
immaculate, expertly tailored, navy colored Armani suit. Rachel flicks the discourteous hair away with a sneer before she grabs the bottom of her suit jacket and tugs downward to straighten it out. "There. Much better."

Rachel considers the broken heel in her palm, gaze flicking between the heel and her Pet. Decision made, she maneuvers the heel until the sole is resting in her palm with the remainder of the heel jutting out between her pointer and middle fingers.

With a manic, gleeful grin Rachel backhands Dean, across the wounded left side of his face.

Rachel's broken heel is now impaled in Dean's left cheek.

Rachel laughs hysterically at Dean's beaten face now adorned with her heel. "Oh that's perfect… absolutely perfect!"

Licking her full lips, Rachel purrs with pleasure as she watches her Pet struggle toward consciousness. Her pupils dilate fully the more she stares at the broken human writhing in agony from such a small thing.

She licks her lips with anticipation, devouring every inch of Dean's decimated body.

Rachel is suddenly fascinated with the lake of Dean's blood lapping at her lopsided heels. Without a thought to spare she reverently removes her heels to stand barefoot in her Pet's blood.

Rachel wiggles her toes and groans sinfully, absolutely reveling in it.

Dean's head violently whips around and back with the force of Rachel's backhand. His breath comes out in short pants and hitching gasps with the unbelievable agony of being impaled.

With a heel.

In his already wounded face.

Dean's head hangs low, right eye blinking rapidly before he squeezes it shut tight.

_Fuck…f-fuh-uuughk…huh…huh…hurts…._

_Get a grip, ya pussy! Suck it up!_

Dean swallows down a whimper and does just that.

Well, he gives it a good go anyways.

Craaaaaap. Now, what the so not awesome shit was that?

He attempts to runs his tongue over where the pain originates…

The fuck?

Dean can't close his mouth.

He tries. He really, really tries.

But he can't.

He just gapes as his jaw spasms and lips tremble.

Blood and saliva steadily run out of his mouth and over his bottom lip forming a long string with every excruciating and hard fought shallow gasp of breath.

Dean loses himself trying to find a coherent thought to latch onto. His mind just isn't working.

At all.

And he can't understand why he… why he… why everything is foggy one minute and clear the next.

He should know why.

Really, he should.

_... fuh… focus…._

_… I's… I…I… sfff… tooff… tooff…. S'why…. Tuh… tooth!_

_Whaaa…. 's'okay… 'member….now…_

The hunter finds lucidity, and runs his tongue over the mess in his cheek; which is exactly what he was trying to do in the first place.

_Missing a couple teeth. Jus' peachy._

_An… an…_

_… Is that a… a heel?! What in the…._

_What in the fuuuuuck…_

_Jesus!_

The haze now dissipates completely unveiling a brutal assault of torment.

His right eye flutters open, stars immediately pricking the edges of his vision. He gasps sharply in pain and volleys an impressive set of expletives (well, at least it sounds like that in his head, though in reality it probably just sounds like an incoherent symphony of gags and choking baby babble) when he feels an intense building of pressure followed by a "pop" behind both his eyes. Bright red accompanied with intense warmth, swarm the already red tinted vision of Dean's right eye and Dean wastes no time in closing it. He moans in absolute utter agony, spitting out blood, a molar (or two), and more slurred curses alike.

A strong quake of nausea follows the wave of warmth spilling from his eyes and Dean convulses involuntarily at the sensation.

Rachel watches rapt.

There are times when Dean really and truly fucking hates his five senses.

Those moments when time stands eerily still and quiet. The calm before a thunderstorm on a hot and sticky summer night.

This may not be a thunderstorm, but it is oh so most definitely one of those times, and it is, without a doubt, a storm.

An utterly excruciating, crushing, Category 10, F-fucking-5-billion, decimating, annihilating, fucking goddamn MOTHERFUCKING STORM-OF-THE-CENTURY AGONIZING STORM.

You'd think Dean would be prepared by now, all things considered.

Namely Hell.

_….yeah….okay…sure…._

_Okay… deep breath..._

_And here we go…._

Core muscles reluctantly agree with Dean's urgent deep breath plea.

Or so he thought.

Apparently, the core muscles have deigned it an absolute necessity to inform him that attempting a deep breath, while convulsing, simply because capillaries in his eyes have burst due to a heel impaled in his cheek, and that he is, quite literally, crying tears of blood, is absolutely no reason to twist and shake the way he is. So they now vehemently refuse to ever agree with him again.

Tremendously poor judgment on Dean's behalf, and how DARE Dean defy the very muscles that help him do EVERYTHING—HELLOOOOOOOO—NOT ONE OF HIS BRIGHTER IDEAS.

Or so they say.

Bastards.

Right on cue the meat hook dashes in and happily fucks the hole in his side.

And it is then when Dean finally, finally snaps wide awake.

Wide awake to a throbbing, blindingly white hot pain in his left eye and cheek with torrent of blood pooling in his mouth so fast he gags and heaves out the blood. And of course—of fucking course!—the meat hook gets further in on the action, sadistic bitch that it is, widening its hole on Dean's torso.

__

_Get it out! Get it out! Get it out! Now! Nownownownownownownownow! Want out now!_

A new flood of warmth makes its escape, gushing down his hip and groin making him feel like he pissing himself.

And if that doesn't just send a lovely barrage of very unpleasant thoughts through Dean's mind.

__

_Did I ALREADY piss myself? Is that why the concrete is wet?!_

A hot tsunami of shame fills the hunter.

_Wonderfuckingful._

__

_Absolutely fucking wonderful._

__

_Oh hiiiiiii, (wish I was high) excruciating fucking God DAMN AGONY! SO FUCKING GOD DAMN GLAD YOU FUCKING SHOWED UP!_

__

_FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKSROPSTOPSTOPSTOPHOLYFUCKINGBALLS!_

__

_Fuckingwhatthefuckithurtsitthrobs!_

The meat hook slides through Dean nearly pulling out with the force of Dean's writhing body.

_Oh God it feels disgusting! Get it out!_

Dean almost gets his wish when the barbed end starts to work its way back in through Dean.

Rachel laughs and uses her power to help the barbed end slowly drag back through Dean, bumping his kidney along the way. Just when she has the hook almost out, she slowly drags it back along its path.

Dean's scream is that of a wounded animal about to die.

But he won't be granted as much.

No. He knows he's going to suffer a great deal.

_Please make it stop! Please… peeeese… peeessss….._

Dean checks out before he can finish his thought.

Rachel is so fascinated she steps closer to her Pet and inhales. A rush of hot arousal floods her vessel. She feels her nipples harden and moisture in her lace thong. Unconsciously Rachel rubs her thighs together as she revels in her Pet's sweat and blood. Her pupils are blown wide and she very nearly licks the blood and sweat off her Pet's face.

Rachel gets a wicked idea. An idea that swells her Grace with wont. Plenty of time for that later. Oh yeeessss. Annnnnd, as it just so happens, Rachel has a couple friends who will be ecstatic for the chance to play with her Pet.


End file.
